Tips on Having a Gay (ex) Boyfriend by Carrie Jones Page A

bar and down the street and then dropped him into the river. He died, of course he died. Just because he was gay. I cringe because I don’t even know his name. What if that happened to Dylan? Although, it’s hard to imagine anyone chasing him down, intimidating him, he’s so strong, but still . . . What if they did and then twenty years later nobody ever knew his name and he was just the gay guy someone murdered. I blow on my hands. I press my lips together. That can’t happen.
    “Not that anyone’s going to drop Dylan off a bridge or anything, but there are some people in this town who think like that, who believe being gay is being evil.”
    “They’re stupid,” I mutter like I’m five years old or something.
    “Yep. They’re stupid. But they exist and Dylan . . . Well, he needs to be careful,” Tom’s dad taps me on the head. “You’re a smart girl, Belle. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I want you to watch out for Dylan, tell him to be cautious, okay?”
    I nod and a huge gulp of fear wedges itself in my throat. It’s all I can do not to cry, all I can do not to sob in Tom’s dad’s cruiser, sob and wish it could all go away. I don’t. I manage to say, “I’ll tell him.”
    “Good,” he nods. “Good. You know, you might want to look for signs of depression too, a lot of boys who are outed in high school get depressed, suicidal.”
    I whirl on him with big eyes and stammer out, “Suicidal? Dylan? That’s crazy.”
    Dylan’s always been one of the most together, happy people I know. He glows. He dances around. He’s a star. My Dylan could never be suicidal. I gulp and swallow, gulp and swallow again and then I lean my head back against the seat. Tom’s dad pats my arm awkwardly and says, “Not all boys, Belle. Just some. I’ve asked Tom to keep an eye out for you, too. I know this has got to be hard for you.”
    “You asked Tom to look out for me?” I say. My words come out slow like they are numbed. My heart presses in on itself for some stupid reason. Of course, Tom was only being nice because his dad asked him to. You can’t be mean to poor, pitiful Belle Philbrick, the girl who was so clueless that she didn’t know that her boyfriend was gay.
    Tom’s dad turned down the heat a little. “This is hard on you, too, Belle. You need support.”
    My heart drops but I nod and wipe at the corner of my eyes and then Brian Barnard, the accountant whose daughter was an all-state basketball guard two years back, drives by in his big black Dodge SUV and honks. We both look at him and wave and smile, but I wonder. Is he one of those people? The people to look out for?

    When Tom’s dad lets me go, I ride up hills, down hills, past the cemetery where Dylan and I had our first kiss, past the spot Dylan, Emily, Bob, and I thought we saw a UFO once. We were driving home from one of Dylan’s recitals. Bob’s mom didn’t show up to pick him up so Em brought him home.
    I pass houses just waking with sleepy coffee smells, stale breath, orange juice, cinnamon-roll hangovers.
    The cold and a fog hangs about the trees, clings to them, shrouding everything in grayness. It’s a gray town, a bland nothing town, but if Tom’s dad is right it’s got little slashes of red fire hiding in there, red-colored hate waiting to burn through the fog.
    I ride and ride and my quads start to burn and the sun starts to rise and my heart doesn’t ache anymore ’cause it’s too busy just beating, trying to pump the energy through my broken-horse body, trying to keep up with the demands for blood, blood, blood.
    Then I realize where I am. My hands squeeze the brake pads. The back tires skid on the frozen gravel, but I don’t fall over. My feet stomp to the ground, holding me steady.
    It’s a house, gambrel style, cute white with a big garden in the back, a sunroom in the front and a pool. It’s got a camper in the driveway and pumpkins on the front steps that no one’s smashed, at least not yet, but